


All's Fair in Love and Cold War

by mzanthropist



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Multi, Smoaking billionaires, The Americans AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzanthropist/pseuds/mzanthropist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1981; Ronald Reagan has been inaugurated as the nation’s 40th president and the Cold War is heating up. Special Agent Tommy Merlyn arrives in Washington D.C., reassigned to Counterintelligence just in time to get caught up in the shitstorm.</p><p>Or The Americans AU in which Felicity and Oliver are KGB agents posing as a married couple, and Tommy is the federal agent tasked with hunting them down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Fair in Love and Cold War

On his second morning in Vienna, Virginia, Tommy goes for a run.

 

It’s early March and while the snow has all but melted, the vestiges of winter still cling determinedly to the morning air. The breeze caressing his cheeks and hair is especially brisk so early in the day, not yet warmed by the sun. His lone footsteps echo through the quiet neighbourhood, most, if not all, of its residents still tucked in their beds, a 40 degree-6 a.m. run the farthest thing from their minds. Tommy isn't most people; he loves the way the cold juxtaposes his body heat, savours the way it soothes his flushed skin and burning muscles.

 

(It also numbs his clamorous brain, dialling the chatter down to an unintelligible hum, preventing his mind from straying down dark and unpleasant paths.)

 

This is the first time he's ventured out into his new neighbourhood. It’s also the first time in two years that he's able to run (or walk or  _skip_  if he damn well pleased) without having to throw wary, surreptitious glances over his shoulder, without the mantra of  _constant vigilance_  playing on a loop in his head. The unshakeable paranoia that he’d been followed, that his every move and utterance was being watched for the slip, the error that would cost him the operation and his  _life,_  has loosened its grip on his heart, allowing it to beat, allowing him to  _breathe,_  without the fear of the world shattering around him.

 

For four years, Tommy had spearheaded Organized Crime and Drug's investigation into Vertigo, the latest club drug to wreak havoc across the country. The latter half had been spent undercover in the seedy underbelly of Starling City, infiltrating the city’s drug ring and working to bring down the man behind it all, the Count.

 

For two seemingly endless years, Tommy had seen things he wishes he never had, done things he’d never fathomed he would (or  _could_ ). His mind is cluttered with images he can't erase. Blood stains his hands, the red lingering and refusing to be washed away no matter how hard and desperately he scrubs.

 

The operation had culminated in a raid that left the Count and several higher-ups dead. And just like that, the two-year chapter in Tommy's life is brought to a close, leaving him to pick up and put back together the pieces of a life he’d so abruptly left behind.

 

(Not that he had many to begin with: his mother passed years ago, his relationship with his father is virtually nonexistent, and his relationship with Laurel had ground to a halt over a year ago.)

 

He rounds a corner sharply, hastily stepping off the sidewalk to avoid collision with a startled dog walker. He breathes an apology, smiling ruefully, and lopes away, leaving the other man muttering crabbily under his breath. Tommy continues along the gutter, keeping to the asphalt in order to avoid trampling other unsuspecting early risers.

 

When he’d learned of his transfer to Counterintelligence and the concomitant relocation to D.C., one emotion predominated the rest: gratefulness. He thinks of this opportunity as a fresh start, the hundreds of miles between himself and Starling serving to both physically and cognitively distance him from the last two years. He wants more than anything to pass off as one of the city’s latest nameless arrivals, just exist amongst a sea of unfamiliar faces, all of whom are oblivious to who he’d been and what he’d done, privy only to what he’s willing to share.

 

Tommy comes to a stop at a four-way stop, jogging in place to keep his muscles from cooling, undecided as to which road to take. He tugs up the cuff of his jacket and glances at the watch on his wrist.  _6:35_. He's been running for a solid thirty minutes, but because of the temperature and the moderate pace he's set for himself, he's barely broken a sweat. Figuring he can go another mile or so, he continues straight ahead, feet keeping time with the steady rhythm of his heart.

 

Two days ago, Tommy had moved into a townhouse provided by the Bureau in this Northern Virginia suburb. It’s a little big for one person, if he’s being honest; with two spacious bedrooms and a finished basement, it's more suited for a couple or small family.

 

(But it's nothing compared to the vast emptiness of his childhood home. The echoing halls and dust-settled rooms of Merlyn mansion surpassed all others when it came to underscoring loneliness and solitude.)

 

Though the house looks to have been well-maintained by its previous occupants, it's rather bare, only scantily furnished by the agency -- there's a lumpy queen bed in the master bedroom, a dining set with a missing chair in the kitchen, a coffee maker with a chipped handle.  _The bare minimum for survival,_  Tommy remembers thinking as he toured his new home for the first time _. Somewhere to sleep, a place to eat and coffee._

 

He supposes he’s expected to supply the rest of the furnishings, make the place his own. It's clear the previous tenants had: several holes dot the walls throughout the house - in the living room, running parallel to the stairs - marking the locations of recently removed nails from which paintings and photos had undoubtedly hung. The problem was, Tommy doesn’t have a lot to his name in terms of personal possessions; he'd sold most of his furniture and belongings before going undercover, not knowing when he’d next make use of them.

 

And he doesn't even know if it's even worth the effort; there's always the possibility of sudden reassignment, maybe to Major Crimes or Art Theft (he’d minored in Art History back in college). It could happen as soon as next month, and he’d prefer not to plant any real roots, saving himself the headache of having to either dispose or haul his belongings across the country.

 

(And then there was the sad reality that he’d probably spend more time at the office than at home.)

 

Tommy circles back to the house ten minutes later. Still not in the least bit fatigued and more than a little reluctant to head back into his drafty house, he's contemplating whether he wants to lope down a couple more streets when he spots a figure in all black (save for the pink soles of her shoes), hurtling towards him from the other end of the street.

 

In the dim morning light, he makes out the vague contours of her face and catches the subtle movements of her body. The muscles around her jaw are pulled taut with concentration, and her chest rises and falls with carefully measured breaths (two deep pulls of air through her nose alternating with two long exhales). The pink-orange glow of the rising sun plays off the wisp of blond hair that peeks out from under the tuque on her head. Curiosity propels Tommy's feet forward.

 

As he reaches the walkway leading to his house, the other runner comes to a halt in front of the unit abutting his.  _Ah_ , he thinks,  _the other neighbour_. (He’s already met the sweet elderly couple to his right when they’d brought over an enormous apple pie a few hours after he’d finished moving in.) The woman startles out of her trance and they stare at each other for an awkward beat.

 

“Tommy Merlyn,” he says finally, extending a hand, “your new neighbour.” He jerks his free thumb toward his darkened porch.

 

“Oh!” the blonde exclaims, tugging off a glove to return the gesture. “Felicity Queen.” She pumps his hand heartily, offering a bright but chagrined smile. “God, you must think my husband and I are terribly rude for not coming over to say hello yet. I honestly wouldn't blame if you've already labelled us 'Worst Neighbours'; we'll have rightly earned it."

 

"Your house had been rather lifeless, now that I think about it," Tommy muses.

 

She grimaces. "My grandmother would be appalled if she found out about this. 'The worst first impression is a late impression, Felicity!'" A sigh. "We’re usually better about this kind of thing, I swear, but the trip was just so last minute and--"

 

"Hey," Tommy interjects softly, "there's no need to explain." He gives her crooked smile. "A late impression is better than no impression, I always say."

 

Felicity's lips twitch. "Do you really?"

 

"No," he admits, "but I might from now on. I think it might catch on."

 

She shakes her head, huffing a laugh. "My grandmother would probably fight you on that. But seriously," her tone sobers, "we were planning on coming by later this afternoon with 'welcome to the neighbourhood' brownies.”

 

“Which I definitely wouldn't refuse. I'm getting the sense that my neighbours are all very big on baking. Between you and Mrs. Connolly, I’m going to have to get my pants let out.”

 

Felicity's eyes narrow. “Has she already brought you one of her glorious pies?” At his nod, she groans in mock despair. “Then, we may as well forget about those brownies because they’re basically edible  _garbage_  compared with one of Mrs. C’s creations.” She leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping though the two of them are the only ones out on the street. “I swear she’s either got a magic oven stashed in her basement, or she's lacing her goods with some really potent fairy dust because a Danish should not taste  _so damn good_.”

 

Tommy chuckles. “I may have to agree with your there, though, admittedly, I’ve only fallen victim to her apple pie so far myself.”

 

“Oh God, she’s already checked you out.”

 

He tilts his head, the furrowing of his brows shifting his smile into one of confusion. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Mrs. C bakes her famous apple pies only for special occasions and when she wants to most impress,” Felicity explains. “Which can only mean that she peeked through her window the moment she heard you roll onto your driveway, nearly swooned at the sight of the good-looking fellow moving in next door, and immediately beelined for the rolling pin and flour while shooing Mr. C out to door to fetch some apples from the store.”

 

Tommy guffaws. “Well, I guess she should consider me as good as ensnared; I polished off a good three-quarters of that pie by myself since she and her husband came by a couple of days ago.”

 

“Witchcraft, I tell you," she says, nodding. "I hope running’s a thing you do regularly. Because all manner of sweets and desserts are going to arrive at your doorstep like there's some invisible conveyor belt connecting her oven to your front door.”

 

He quirks a brow. “Is that why you’re out here at the crack of dawn?”

 

Felicity heaves a dramatic sigh. “Yes. I’m a sucker for anything that’ll rot my teeth and induce a sugar coma. And, evidently, Mrs. C’s a sucker for my husband; she just conveniently happens to have whipped up something temptingly delectable the moment he pulls into the driveway.” She rolls her eyes goodhumouredly. “Flirting with Oliver has become her favourite pastime. But," she smirks, "I’d say he’s got a bit of competition with you around.”

 

He chuckles. “Well, my sweet tooth most certainly won't be complaining.”

 

“So now that Mrs. C has nixed my plans to wow you with my less than phenomenal baking skills, why don’t you stop by for dinner tonight?” Felicity’s nose scrunches delicately. “Though it admittedly won’t be anything extravagant. I’m pretty hopeless in the kitchen – those brownies were going to come out of a box, by the way, and even then there was a 70% chance that there would be  _something_ wrong with them by the time I was done with them – and Oliver’s only slightly better. And by that I mean he can manage not to burn a pot of tomato sauce completely black, unlike yours truly. We subsist mostly on takeout and Mrs. C’s excuses to come over," her lips purse thoughtfully, "which is really a godsend, now that I think about it.”

 

She shakes herself out of her ramble. “Anyway, we'll attempt our best at this cooking thing, but I recommend that you set your standards low. As in 'I might be going home without a scrap of food in my stomach' low."

 

"I'm sure it can't be  _that_ bad."

 

"You say that  _now_ , but in a few hours, you'll be thinking something completely different," Felicity says darkly. "But rest assured, if everything goes disastrously in terms of the food, we’ll ply you with enough wine to make you forget the trash you’ll no doubt politely shove into your mouth and down your esophagus even as we insist that you don't.”

 

Tommy smiles broadly. “With an offer like that, how can I refuse?”

 

She beams brightly back at him. “Great! How does 8 o’clock sound?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

As they head up their respective driveways and front steps, Tommy asks, “Anything I should bring?”

 

“Nope,” Felicity responds, fishing a key out of the pocket of her running jacket, an action that Tommy mirrors. “Just yourself.”

 

With a final cheery smile and wave, Felicity disappears into her house.

 

\--

 

Despite instructions not to bring anything, Tommy has a bottle of Merlot tucked under his arm as stands facing his neighbours' cherry red door. The well-ingrained etiquette from his childhood (as well as the image of his father’s scornfully pursed lips) refuses to let him leave the house empty-handed.

 

Seconds after he’s rung the doorbell, the door swings open to reveal a blond man about his age whose height and broad shoulders take up much of the doorway between them. But any intimidation Tommy may have felt is quelled by the easygoing smile gracing the other man’s lips and the earnest warmth in the handshake he offers.

 

As he’s ushered into the living-dining area, Felicity pushes through the swinging door that joins the kitchen and dining room. A bottle of wine rests in one hand while three glasses dangle from the fingers of the other, the bowls of the stemware knocking gently against one another as she moves. When she spots the bottle in his hand, she fixes him with a heatless glare and tsks. 

 

“I told you not to bring anything!” she admonishes mildly.

 

Tommy shrugs a shoulder. “You generously offered to feed me. I figured it was only polite that I express my gratitude in some way.”

 

He proffers the bottle towards her, label faced up. With mock-exasperation, Felicity transfers the glasses and bottle from her hands onto the dining table. “Any of us actually eating tonight is still up in the air. Things have been smooth sailing so far, but there's enough time for the oven to decide to turn against me,” she quips, hand wrapping around the neck of the bottle.

 

“Ohhhh, nice choice,” she coos approvingly, scrutinizing the label. Her eyes lift to meet his, a brow arched. “You, sir, know your wines.”

 

Tommy tucks his hands into his pant pockets, shoulders hitching up again. “My mother was what you might call a wine enthusiast,” he explains.

 

“Felicity's also a bit of a wine nut,” Oliver says, a teasing smile curling his lips.

 

“We oenophiles prefer 'connoisseur', thank you,” Felicity primly corrects her husband.

 

"Right, of course," Oliver hums complaisantly. She pokes out her tongue, eliciting a rumbling chuckle.

 

Felicity pulls out a corkscrew from her back pocket and works it into the bottle of Merlot. “Forget the Pinot Noir I’d picked out; we're totally drinking this tonight.”

 

\-- 

 

The three of them polish off both bottles halfway through the main course (a baked ziti that emerges from the oven unscathed and in all of its cheesy-tomato perfection, the complete opposite of the catastrophe Felicity had feared. "Huh," she'd mused, "that's a first.").

 

Tommy finds himself enjoying the couple’s company, the tension pulling his shoulders to his ears seeping away and easing him into a relaxed slump against his seat. If he wasn't already, he grows increasingly endeared by Felicity’s disarming effervescence and alacrity as the evening passes, her animated chatter and rambling digressions a welcome change to the sinister mutterings of a megalomaniac.

 

Oliver is the calm that balances his wife's animation. And though nowhere as loquacious or effusive as Felicity, he's equally as charming, all easy smiles and rich laughter.

 

The two men quickly discover that they share a lot in common. They’d both grown up calling Starling City home (albeit from different neighbourhoods: Oliver in Castlefall and Tommy in Orchid Bay), fly-fishing at the lake north of the city and cheering on the Stars at their home games.

 

Oliver, in a way, is a direct link to a life that had become a distant and faded memory for Tommy, one he'd thought he’d long left behind and could never reclaim. Oliver reminds him of his childhood, his life before his mother’s death and his father’s disappearance (and subsequent reappearance as a man he barely recognized). He's reminded of a Starling City that he hasn't come to so thoroughly despise, that doesn't leave him itching to wash nonexistent grit and grime from his skin at its mention.

 

(And yes, Tommy's aware he’d been just another ignorant, privileged kid back then, but he’s not sure if he doesn’t prefer those halcyon days of blissful ignorance to the ones he’d had to endure more recently, eyes opened to the side of Starling City he’d never wished to see, much less be a part of, since his mother’s death.)

 

Maybe it was the two of them or the four glasses of wine he'd consumed, but either way, Tommy hasn’t felt this comfortable, this  _weightless_ , in a long time, with anyone or in his own skin.

 

In fact, he’s so relaxed that he answers candidly and with little hesitation when Oliver inquires as to what brought him to Vienna, Virginia.

 

"My job, actually; a recent transfer to D.C.."

 

Oliver nods in understanding. "The commute into the city from here is pretty great."

 

"So I've been told."

 

Felicity peers over the rim of her glass. "And what do you do in D.C., Tommy?"

 

"I work for the FBI."

 

She blinks owlishly. "As in the Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

 

Tommy nods.

 

The pair stare at him wide-eyed, processing. “Oh, wow,” Felicity finally breathes, setting down her glass and canting forward on stacked forearms. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a federal agent before. So, are you the catching bank robbers kind or the busting white-collar crime kind?”

 

Tommy shakes his head, amused. “Neither, actually. I work in counterintelligence now.”

 

Both of his companions’ spines straighten and Oliver's grip on his knife tightens for a split second. The movements are minute, nearly imperceptible, but not enough to escape detection by Tommy’s keen eye. If undercover work had taught him anything, it was how to discern and catalogue of every infinitesimal  twitch or microexpression. But he dismisses these tells as quickly as he'd noticed them; it wasn't the first time he's seen people go rigid with alarm at the mention of FBI and counterintelligence – the fast connection to the Soviets and the KGB puts everyone on edge these days.

 

“Counterintel, that’s--" Felicity scrunches her nose in uncertainty, "--spying against spies...?”

 

Tommy nods. “That’s one way of putting it.”

 

“Then, I guess we’ll have to make sure we don’t do any spying around here,” Oliver jokes lightly.

 

“Oh, you better not, especially for those Russians.”

 

Their airy, carefree laughter puts him more at ease than it should.

 

That's his first (and most fatal) mistake.

**Author's Note:**

> The next couple chapters will flesh out Felicity and Oliver's backstory. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and please drop a review if you've got the time, either here or on Tumblr. I love hearing back from readers! Any ideas and/or suggestions you may have are also welcome!


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